CHILDREN OF THE SEA

‘This is Ernest Rovira, personal secretary to the Dafonte-Llobet family.’

My name is Simón, and I am an architect. Yes, I know, neither my name nor my profession are of the greatest importance. But my mother always said manners are everything in this life. My name is Simón. Though it could just as well be Nothing. Given that nobody ever calls me. If I’m not careful, my friends don’t call me either. The two or three I have left. It wasn’t always like this. I was never one of those popular guys who are always the centre of attention, the life and soul of the party, you know. But nor was I a social pariah.

Well, I don’t think I was…

At school, I spent my hours drawing. I used to really get on my art teacher’s nerves because I was always drawing houses with twisted chimneys and colouring them with lines that went beyond the borders of the drawing. And now I’m an architect. I embarked on my degree in Barcelona, at the Polytechnic University of Catalonia, in the autumn of 1990. They were ten (yes, ten) very intense years of learning, partying, carousing… But everything must come to an end, everything must finish. By the time the twentieth century had turned into the twenty-first, and the second millennium into the third, I had decided to mark this solemn moment with the opening of my own practice here in Vigo, the city where I was born almost 37 years ago. It didn’t take me long to appreciate that humanity’s great moments are just as transitory, just as vulgar, as any others. By the time I realized, the sense of failure, and above all loneliness, had moved in with me, into a dark corner of my studio. Very few people ever come this way. The odd acquaintance seeking ideas to do up his grandparents’ old place, well-informed heirs looking for an architectural plan with which to try and get round the Coastal Law… Small subsistence projects, little else.

Hardly anybody ever called me, certainly not the personal secretary of one of the most influential families in Vigo. On a Monday, no less.

‘Excuse me… Who did you say you were?’

‘Rovira, Ernest Rovira. As I said, I am personal secretary to the Dafonte-Llobet family. Would you be so kind as to put me through to Mr Simón Varela, please?’

‘Yes, of course. Excuse me, I just wasn’t sure I had understood you correctly. I am Simón, Simón Varela.’

‘Simón Varela, the architect, I take it,’ the voice on the other end of the line sought to verify, perhaps as a result of my initial uncertainty. Even so, a man’s pride is his pride, and I was on the verge of retorting, ‘No, Simón Varela, the chicken sexer, what do you…’ But I held myself in check.

‘That’s right, Mr Rovira. How can I be of assistance?’

There was a brief silence before he replied, as if somebody on the other end of the line wasn’t entirely confident about his interlocutor’s capabilities. In the end, after a deliberately ill-concealed sigh, the voice of Mr Rovira, whoever this man might be, resurfaced.

‘You see, Don Simón’ – I absolutely hated every moment someone addressed me in these terms; truth be told, there weren’t that many occasions, but this business about ‘Don Simón’ always made me feel supremely ridiculous – ‘it is my duty to inform you of the wish of Mrs Isabel Llobet, widow of the late Don Eneas Dafonte Maristany, to hire your services as an architect. Should you be available, of course.’

This had to be some kind of joke. Someone was pulling my leg. Either that, or I’d just won the lottery. Available? To work for such people, I was capable of hopping at top speed, with my tongue hanging out, just to sign the contract. In a tenth of a second, all the years I’d spent dreaming of an important commission came rushing into my head. This might be the impetus I’d been waiting for to position myself at the forefront of architecture in the city. I tried to suppress the revolution of nerves and continue with the conversation.

‘Well, the truth is our diaries have been rather full lately, but I’m sure we could find a small gap. What is the job… if I might ask?’

‘Certainly, Don Simón’ – Don Simón… I had the impression he was enjoying himself, it must all have been a joke at my expense – ‘it’s a question of designing and directing a renovation project in one of the areas of the Great House, the old manor belonging to the Dafontes. I don’t know if you are familiar with it…’

‘I’ve heard of it, I think…’ – heard of it, what a laugh! The Great House, as everybody in Vigo knew perfectly well, was a splendid manor house on Canido Beach, in the outskirts of the city. An old, ramshackle building that dated back to the beginning of the eighteenth century, which had spent most of its history in a state of abandonment and deterioration until being bought by Eneas Dafonte at the start of the 1950s. All of us city architects were familiar with the story of this house, because the work of restoration had been one of the finest examples of respect for traditional Galician architecture carried out during years of grey, rational buildings. In effect, if this were not a joke in bad taste, I had hit the jackpot.

‘All the same, Mr Varela, please rest assured that the purpose of my call is just to establish contact and ascertain your availability. Should you wish to confirm your interest in the project, then Dona Isabel will contact you herself at a later stage.’

‘I understand, Mr Rovira. Please confirm my interest in the job and inform Mrs Llobet that she may call me at her earliest convenience.’

‘Very good, I shall tell her. Thank you for your time and attention, Mr Varela.’

‘Thank you. I shall be waiting to hear from you.’

I replaced the receiver and allowed all the tension that had been building up during the conversation to evaporate. I shouted out loud, jumped in the air, did a jig and banged my leg against a corner of my desk, but there were too many emotions in the air to notice any aches and pains at that precise moment.

As far as I was aware, the Dafonte-Llobets were famous for being one of the wealthiest and most important old families in the city, but it was also true that a certain rancid atmosphere, linked to memories from the past, enveloped their name whenever it was mentioned. What’s more, the name of one of the men in the family, Mr Xulio Dafonte, had been doing the rounds of the city’s gossip venues, with a couple of appearances in the accident and crime section of the Faro de Vigo, because of something related to one of his companies and other trouble. I suppose I should have been paying more attention to local life, but the truth is, back then, I only ever opened the newspaper to read the Garfield comic strip, the TV guide and the back page, in that order, little else. When they stopped publishing the adventures of that overweight cat, my relationship with the press went to a better place.

Such is the way of things, my excitement was soon replaced by doubt. If the Dafonte-Llobets had all the money and status I imagined, then it was also true that they could have hired the current holder of the Pritzker Architecture Prize to slap a lick of paint on their garden sheds, had they wanted to. Why me, a nobody, and not Norman Foster? Or another Galician architect – there were plenty of good ones… All this had to be some kind of joke. Though, that said, Mr Ernest, whoever that man on the other end of the line had been, had sounded very serious… Well, it was better to calm down and await the turn of events. If they wanted to call, then they would do so.

My disguise as a mature, well-grounded person steadily grew more fragile. The hours passed around me with the slowness of the seasons. A bubbling spring full of hope soon gave way to a suffocating summer crammed with delusions of grandeur. Time continued on its inexorable way, until such blazing ideas fell like leaves off my head during an uncomfortable autumn. I was already imprisoned in the whitest and coldest of winters, my earlier hope subject to terrible old age, convinced this had all been an unpleasant joke, when, as night was falling, the phone in my studio rang again. I leaped up from the sofa, clashing with the lamp on the ceiling, landed in front of the phone and, with the most poorly concealed tranquillity in the history of universal theatre, picked up the receiver.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Simón Varela?’ An old woman’s voice immediately gave me a sense of calm and sweetness that left me feeling a little disoriented.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Good evening, Simón. This is Isabel Llobet, I suppose Ernest has already mentioned me. Please forgive me for ringing at this hour, I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.’

Before she introduced herself, I already knew who she was, and it wasn’t exactly a scoop on my friend Ernest’s part. When I heard her speak, I realized it was her. I suppose one is the sum of one’s prejudices, and I’d imagined this woman, the matriarch of such an influential family, would possess a much stronger, harsher voice. I’d prepared myself to confront such harshness. And yet Dona Isabel spoke with the sweetness of an old granny, an elderly neighbour who’s lived in the building all her life, the one you bump into at the entrance. I realized it was her, and yet I didn’t know what my role ought to be. All I knew was that my preparations were not going to help in this conversation. I still hadn’t noticed she’d started calling me by my Christian name. As if she’d been doing this all her life.

‘No, no, not at all. There’s no need to worry about that. The truth is I hadn’t even realized what time it was, I’ve been poring over plans all afternoon.’

‘A-ha’ – now I had the sensation I’d been caught out by an all-knowing mother – ‘well, that’s good. Ernest informs me we shall have the pleasure of working with you at the house’ – hang on a minute, hadn’t I told him I needed to check my diary? Had it been so obvious? ‘You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear that.’

‘Well, I’m pleased that you’re pleased’ – what the hell was I saying? ‘He… Well, the truth is I was able to shuffle things round a bit so I could devote some time to your project. That said, I’d be grateful to know what this is all about. Ernest – I mean, Mr Rovira – mentioned something about a renovation in the house, but he didn’t say much more than that. Perhaps you could…’

‘Of course, Simón, of course. Ernest is very serious when it comes to the question of discretion, and never says more than he has to. Don’t hold it against him, Mr Varela. The fact is the renovation is not in the house itself, but in the gardens, the old pond.’

I fell silent, trying to process all this information my brain was receiving consciously and subconsciously. Dona Isabel must have interpreted my silence as a sign of disappointment.

‘I hope you’re not feeling discouraged, Simón. I realize some alterations in the garden, an old water fountain, are not exactly suited to an architect of your stature.’

My stature? What did she mean by this? For a moment, I had the impression she was making fun of me, as if she realized I was really a nobody. That was when I understood all my masks were useless in the presence of this woman. It was she who was in charge of the situation. And, anyway, that hadn’t been my intention.

‘Oh no, Dona Isabel, not at all. I was just listening. You see, the truth is I don’t mind working inside or outside the house. Now, to be perfectly honest, I don’t quite understand why you would want to work with me. I’m well aware you could hire Michelangelo himself if you wanted to.’

‘Don’t worry about that now, my boy. At my age, one is able to discern between good and bad decisions. And I am absolutely convinced you are the right person for the job. So, tell me, can we count on you, or not?’

This woman certainly knew what she was about. For a moment, I had the sensation my reply would be just another pantomime, the decision had already been rubberstamped, and it wasn’t exactly me who’d applied his signature. But I carried on regardless.

‘Of course, Dona Isabel. I’d be honoured to work for you.’

‘Great!’ she exclaimed on the other end of the line. I was struck by the tone of her voice at that moment, since it sounded as if she was really pleased about our agreement, and not just pretending. ‘Then there’s no need to talk any further. When can you come? How about tomorrow? Five o’clock would be just fine. Then we’ll be able to discuss the matter calmly, and I shall be able to explain the job to you in more detail on the ground. Does that sound all right to you?’

All I could do was give my consent to the deluge of energy and satisfaction being exuded by this woman. The warmth and sweetness of her voice made it difficult to deduce exactly how old she would be but, taking into account the stories doing the rounds of the city, I imagined she was somewhere between seventy and seventy-five. And yet she gave off so much energy! I agreed with a simple ‘a-ha’, which today strikes me as even more ridiculous. On the other end of the line, she expressed her satisfaction and took her leave until the following day.

‘No need to talk any further. See you tomorrow then, Simón!’

‘A-ha,’ and that was all that remained to be said. And yet I still didn’t understand anything. I’d been waiting for that call all day, and now there was nothing more to be said. ‘A-ha.’ What did it all mean? Why was I the right person for the job? And what job was it exactly? Dona Isabel sounded like the most pleasant woman in the world, and yet the impression of ingenuousness soon gave way to a very different one in my imagination. It was rumoured the Dafonte-Llobet family didn’t have the cleanest of pasts. And, according to what was being printed in the newspapers, it didn’t seem their present was exactly an oasis of honesty. What was going on? For a moment, I entertained the possibility that they were using me as a scapegoat in some murky business. I have to confess I even felt a little afraid. Call me paranoid, but who was going to miss a mediocre architect like me, should I disappear off the stage the day after tomorrow? Well, I suppose my creditors would at the start of the month, but that wasn’t what I meant. I suddenly realized I was beginning to feel trapped by a net that only acquired substance in my mind. I’m not sure what I was more excited about: the certainty of a new job – a real one, this time – or the uncertainty the whole affair was shrouded in. By the time I came to, night had descended, and I felt my head was about to go ‘boom’. I decided it was better to drop the matter and wait for what the morrow would bring. Truth be told, it couldn’t be much worse than the life I already had. I lay down on the blue sofa in my studio, convinced I wouldn’t be able to shut my eyes all night. Five minutes later, I was sound asleep.